


Jam

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 01:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12948759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Deanna valiantly rescues Worf.





	Jam

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

She’s having a perfectly lovely dream about bathing in chocolate when she’s nudged awake. Deanna whines her protest and snuggles deeper into the pillow, chasing the wisps of fantasy. But she’s already too-aware of Worf’s large hand around her shoulder, and he gives her another gentle shake, murmuring, “Deanna.”

She tries to mumble: _what_ but instead just yawns. Her eyes blink open of their own accord, facing the dim lights of their quarters—evidently, Worf’s turned them on, if only by a fraction. He blocks half of it out, sitting just beside her, the blankets spilled around his waist and still comfortably draped across most of her body. Before she’s finished her second yawn, he hisses, “There’s a _thing_ in our living room.”

Unsure if she’s still half-asleep or he’s just being confusing, Deanna squints up at him. Worf glares back down at her, even more tense than usual, of course not angry _with_ her but clearly enraged by something in general. She asks, “So?” Because that couldn’t possibly be a reason to wake her up.

He tells her quickly, like it’s a hard, cold fact, “You must get rid of it.”

Deanna would tilt her head if it weren’t so perfectly nestled against the pillow. She mumbles, “ _Me_? Aren’t you usually the one that’s itching to protect me?”

For a moment, Worf positively _sneers_ , the sort of toothy, nightmarish thing that would send most Terran children running for the hills. But Deanna never fears him, and she understands that that’s just his face—just the Klingon way. She just waits it out, until Worf seems to tucker himself out with his own dissatisfaction, and he sighs in resignation, “Deanna, _please_.”

When Worf gets like that, she knows he means business. She finally faces the fact that she won’t get all her sleep tonight, and she begrudgingly rolls over, slipping off the bed. Their quarters are kept warm enough to manage in just her silken nightdress, but she still plans on getting back beneath the blankets as soon as possible.

She doesn’t know quite what to expect when she reaches the living space of their quarters, though she knows it couldn’t be anything dangerous—he’d never send her into that. Sure enough, the room seems empty at first glance, until a low purring draws her attention to the floor. She spots the fluffy brown tribble lying just below their coffee table, and she has to shoot a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh. Now it all makes sense.

As Deanna pads over to scoop up the offending creature, she can hear Worf puttering about their bedroom. When she glances up, she finds him peering through the doorway, eyeing the tribble murderously. He smoothly informs her, “In the morning, I will find whoever left this abomination here, and they will pay dearly for it.” She doesn’t know if that means the culprit will spend some time in a holding cell or if they’ll face the full breadth of Klingon wrath.

It doesn’t matter, because she’ll calm him down before then. She’ll explain that it’s only a prank—if one in poor taste—and heads needn’t roll over it. But that’ll be a conversation for the morning, once she’s had her beauty rest.

Deanna takes the trilling tribble out into the hallway, underdressed and everything, and sets it on a potted plant just outside their cabin. Then she taps on the terminal mounted in the wall, and she comms the first person she can think of who should still be on duty—“Data, someone’s left a tribble in our quarters. Could you please come and get it?”

Instantly, Data’s halting voice replies, _“Certainly, Councilor. Although I must point out that tribbles are currently classified as a security matter.”_

That’s part of what does make the prank mildly funny, at least for her. She still tells Data, “I’m afraid Worf’s a little tied up at the moment. I’d appreciate it if you’d help.”

_“Ah, ‘tied up.’ Is this referring to the humanoid practice of physically restraining one’s partner during lovemaking using—”_

Deanna quickly interrupts, “I’ll leave the tribble just outside our quarters. Thank you.” 

There’s a slight pause, during which Data is likely reviewing her reaction and concluding that he must’ve said something wrong. That, too, she’ll explain in the morning.

For now, she ends the commlink and trails back into her quarters. Worf’s waiting in bed, looking awkwardly stiff and adorably sulky. She comes around to her side and slides back beneath the blanket, then sidles up to his thick warmth, and his broad shoulder makes for her favourite pillow. She presses a fleeting kiss against his chin and promises, “Don’t worry. I’ve saved you from the scary monster.”

Worf scowls, but he still grunts, “Thank you.” And Deanna can’t resist one chuckle. Then she kisses his face and settles into sleep, while he cocoons around her to do the same.


End file.
